


I've Outlived all the Miracles That Came for Me

by prettyasadiagram



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, Spark Stiles, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyasadiagram/pseuds/prettyasadiagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the record, when Stiles found the spell for inner clarity and peace of mind, he imagined more beatific visions and a holy glow. He decidedly did not anticipate receiving a frantic late-night phone call asking if he’d seen Derek and later finding Derek skulking in the woods and chasing poor defenseless squirrels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Outlived all the Miracles That Came for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thatdamneddame for, as usual, for the beta and ensuring this actually made sense. Sorry it took me five months to send something new your way :)
> 
> This was supposed to be a Swan Princess AU.... Clearly that didn't actually happen, alas. Maybe some other time.
> 
> If I am missing tags/warnings, please let me know.
> 
> Title from "The Last Known Sighting of the Mapinguari" by Traci Brimhall

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Stiles says sadly. There was no flash of light, no singing of angels, no sudden understanding of the shitshow that was his life, even though he could have sworn he felt something, like that time Scott dared him that he couldn’t catch and hold a butterfly, a faint fluttering and knowledge that he probably shouldn’t be doing this.

Lydia raises an eyebrow and stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Your Latin needs some serious work. And would you have preferred to lose your eyebrows again?”

Stiles shrugs. “Strength in adversity?”

From her pursed lips, Stiles guesses that was the wrong answer.

 

 

(In hindsight, Stiles thinks he probably should have listened after he set a book on fire and Deaton told him not to read aloud from the spell books anymore. It would have saved Deaton three singed books and a broom. It would have saved Stiles from a two-week period of color blindness and an extensive period of time when he looked like a werewolf-wannabe with his lack of eyebrows.

It definitely would have saved Derek from a steady diet of squirrel and rabbit, but since Stiles isn’t actually sure what Derek normally eats, this could still be normal for him, just on four legs a little more often than usual.

In any case, who knew that the hooked-on phonics version of Latin would be just as effective as actually knowing the language? Under these circumstances, apparently, belief means nothing when compared to having a “spark.”

For the record, when Stiles found the spell for inner clarity and peace of mind, he imagined more beatific visions and a holy glow; he pictured figuring out the best way to broach the topic of supernatural goings-on to his dad. He decidedly did not anticipate receiving a frantic late-night phone call asking if he’d seen Derek and later finding Derek skulking in the woods and chasing poor defenseless squirrels. 

On the other hand, maybe Derek can find this promised peace of mind. That wouldn’t be so bad, right?)

 

 

He gets the call from Erica around eleven, her voice strangely tight and there’s no joking, no vague threats before she gets to the point and demands to know if anything weird happened today. 

Stiles opens his mouth to deny everything when he remembers the way his tongue had felt heavy and his hands a bit too warm as he mangled a dead language, even as Lydia made a small moue of disgust.

Before Erica hangs up, he learns that Derek disappeared sometime that afternoon, left the faucet running and the door open and just took off. Isaac says there was a strange smell, like burnt popcorn and honey, but the smell of pack and alpha was fading.

 

 

Their search party is a bust. Isaac keeps catching faint trails and Erica finds threads of Derek’s ubiquitous gray Henley, and when they start to slow, Boyd rests a hand on Erica’s back and urges them all to keep going. 

By the time it’s 1 A.M., his dad is texting him increasingly tersely worded texts and Stiles knows he’s got about 15 minutes before there’s a patrol car headed his way. The time is long past when “video games at Scott’s” could keep him safely out past till 2. 

They all agree to start the search again the next day after school, but as Stiles heads back to his jeep, from the corner of his eye he sees Isaac disappearing back into the forest and knows that come first period tomorrow, Isaac will have dark circles under his eyes and the clenched jaw of someone who emphatically does not want to talk about it..

 

 

In a complete turnaround from their usual luck, the next day they find Derek just before sunset. Everyone except Stiles freezes and looks east before taking off, leaving him standing clueless and calling after them to wait up. 

By the time he catches up, it’s clear that their luck hasn’t changed that much. Derek is naked, growling, bleeding from slowly closing cuts, and looks like he has no idea what’s going on. Isaac is sprawled on the ground fifteen feet away, and Boyd is snarling right back at Derek, standing protectively in front Erica as she holds her arm stiffly against her stomach.

When Stiles steps into the clearing, Derek’s eyes snap toward him and there’s some snarling and definitely some more bloodshed before Derek’s voice rings out, strong and confused and more than a bit demanding, “What the hell is going on?”

From her position of relative safety, Erica grits out, “Dibs on not calling Deaton.”

 

 

(On the way back to the car, Stiles lags behind and rests a hand on Erica’s elbow, the one she’s not curled over protectively, and softly asks what happened before he got there. Derek is trudging silently about twenty feet ahead of them, and Stiles hopes that he’s not actively listening. 

Erica is silent for a long moment before muttering just as quietly, her eyes fixed on Derek’s back, “He was in full wolf. Didn’t even recognize us. He almost tore my arm off before Boyd pulled him off me.” 

As she picks up her pace to walk next to Boyd, Stiles thinks hopes that Deaton will have some straightforward answers for once.)

 

 

Stiles is starting to wonder if Deaton sleeps in his office, because the man is always there when they need him. Well, in a loose sense of the word “there.”

In his customary manner, Deaton talks about balance and nature and looks at Derek like he probably poked the wrong mushroom with a stick and this is most likely his own fault, before saying calmly, “I’ll have to do some research, shouldn’t take more than a day or two. But just to be thorough, when did you say it started?”

It’s the third time they’ve been over this, and by now the rest of the pack has left, so Stiles understands why Derek’s fingers clench into fists as he grits out, “Sunday. Late afternoon. 4ish, maybe.”

But this time, something clicks and Stiles swallows heavily, chancing a look at a familiar book on the shelf behind Deaton. Shit. 

Deaton turns to Stiles and says very, very calmly, a definite note of foreboding and resignation in his voice, “Stiles.” 

“So I know you said that I shouldn’t read Latin in front of the books, but there was this spell, and—”

Derek growls and moves toward him, “So this is your fault?”

Deaton holds up a hand to ward Derek off and stares placidly at Stiles while he splutters. The knowing look in Deaton’s eyes makes Stiles bite his tongue before he can blurt out that wasn’t him. Lying is much more difficult when all your friends can tell hear your heartbeat.

Stiles fidgets while Derek growls some more, and then he blurts out, “I didn’t think it would work. Lydia said my Latin was terrible.”

“And if you were anyone else, Stiles, I would say that were true.” Deaton sighs heavily and starts to frown. “But as I’ve told you before, it can be extraordinary what the force of your own will can accomplish. Yours more than most, Stiles.”

There’s another long moment of silence where Stiles ponders what Deaton’s not saying, and wonders what else he could do with his will, before pushing that to the back of his mind and asking, “How long will the spell last?”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking of, probably at least a week. If we’re lucky.” With that, Deaton makes Stiles show him exactly which spell he used while Derek glares in the background.

 

 

It quickly becomes apparent that Stiles is the only one that Derek can really stand while he’s stuck in wolf form during the day.

After Isaac’s third mauling and Erica’s second broken arm, they agree to hang back while Stiles attempts to herd Derek in the general direction of Deaton’s. Better to keep him contained at first than risk losing him in the woods again. 

(The second night, after they’d finally tracked Derek down, he’d taken one look at Boyd and growled like they were strangers, fangs lengthening and eyes flaring red.

Scott’s squawk of surprise was endearing. The resulting bloodshed less so.

Stiles wraps the sluggishly bleeding cut on Boyd’s arm, and then points at him and then Scott, “No one does anything like that again, got me? I’m running out of bandages and the dude at CVS is starting to give me weird looks.”)

 

 

Scott, for the record, is firmly against this plan, and shares his feelings loudly and frequently. “I just don’t see why—”

“Well, if you want to see what your blood looks like on the outside of your body, again, you’re more than welcome to hang around. I think Erica is starting a club. If you ask nicely I’m sure she’ll let you join.”

From his silence, Stiles guesses that Scott isn’t really interested in more physical violence. 

“That’s what I thought. Look, Scott, I got this. Derek is just a little growly and more physical for a bit. And then he’s human again and just normal levels of physical. And surly. I got this under wraps.”

 

 

By Day Three, they have things more or less under control. Sort of. It’s a careful balance of werewolves tracking Derek down and then Stiles proceeding on foot until Derek corners him against a tree and sits on him, like Stiles might wander off and fall down a well, or he growls continuously until he curls up and turns back into Derek, while Stiles huddles against a tree and tries not to die.

It’s pretty hit or miss, but at least Derek never actually puts forth effort into trying to eat Stiles, so they chalk it up as a win.

(Stiles doesn’t tell the rest of the group that it takes Derek a little while to remember bipedal motion, to remember that he’s human, to remember who Stiles is.)

 

 

“I know you can’t actually understand me, but why, for the love of God,” Stiles pants, “does this kind of shit keep happening to you? It’s not like I was thinking of you when I read the damn spell—”

Derek snarls. Today is not a good day.

“Whoa, hold on there, White Fang, let’s take it easy—”

When Scott’s howl rings through the trees, Derek’s instinctive answer distracts him long enough for Stiles to blow the “just in case” wolfsbane powder that Lydia had grudgingly given him into Derek’s face. Wolf-Derek sneezes and takes one stumbling step and lets out a heartbreaking whine of betrayal before collapsing. Staring down at the crumpled giant wolf at his feet, Stiles tries to slow his pounding heart and hopes that no one called the cops about wolves being so close to town.

Scott texts that they’re on their way from across town, and that leaves Stiles alone in a clearing somewhere in the Preserve with a giant, deadly wolf and only faith that Derek will stay unconscious until sunset.

 

 

By the time Derek stirs, Scott has come and gone, dropping off some clothes for Derek, but is probably lingering somewhere in the vicinity, unlikely to actually leave Stiles alone with a potentially unstable Derek. Stiles is sitting on the ground, leaning back against a tree, quiet.

(It’s one thing to have Stiles nearby when Derek is still figuring out how to use his opposable thumbs. Stiles is weak and prey and very clearly not a threat. It’s another thing to have another werewolf hanging around, because the wolf doesn’t recognize them as pack, doesn’t see friends or family, but strangers and threats and unknown. It paces around Stiles, keeps him in sight, occasionally approaches, and when the moon slips above the horizon, the wolf curls into a ball and shakes and whimpers.)

Stiles keeps watch as Derek shifts back into his own skin, hopes that this time he remembers faster. The lingering look of confusion on Derek’s face is worrying, but his startled grunt when Stiles tosses a bag of clothes at his face is decidedly familiar and comforting.

“Suit up, Scooby Doo; we’ve got work to do.”

 

 

They’re taking turns hanging out with Derek in Deaton’s office every night while they try to figure out how to end the spell. It’s Stiles’s turn, and while he would really like to start sleeping at night, as opposed to napping during study hall, he’d rather have Derek back, taciturn and grumpy but at least aware, so he makes do.

The worst part of all this is how Stiles is pretty sure that the line between Derek and wolf is starting to blur. It’s taking longer for Derek to come back to himself after sunset; his eyes stay hungry for tense minutes after fur fades to flesh. Stiles is afraid that one night he’ll come to the clearing and the wolf won’t show. Or that come darkness, the wolf will show but Derek won’t. He’ll just be gone, lost to the curse, and then Stiles will feel like an asshole for every Swan Princess joke he’s made.

But until that happens, Stiles will badger Derek and call him Odette, ask if he’s accepted Scott as his Jim Bob yet, because every time Derek tells him to shut up instead of snarling or snapping teeth in his direction is a little longer where Derek remembers that he’s not just the wolf.

Besides, Stiles has a growing suspicion that flipping through Deaton’s numerous books won’t get them anything but papercuts. 

 

 

“Any luck?” Scott asks the next morning.

Stiles slumps in his desk, muttering out of the corner of his mouth to avoid Finstock’s attention. “Nope. Thought we’d found something at one point, but then Derek wolfed out once sun rose, so clearly that was not his path to clarity.”

“And you’re sure we can’t help?”

“You that desperate to have some bonding time with Derek?”

Scott thins his lips. “I just—I don’t like this.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer, because no shit.

 

 

Derek is giving off some serious don’t talk to me vibes, but they’ve been wandering the forest for an hour since Deaton kicked them out, told them to go clear their heads, and Stiles is bored. Besides, Derek should know better by now.

“So,” Stiles starts. “Vegetarian vampires. Discuss.”

“No.” Derek says flatly.

“Hey, it happened on _Supernatural_. I just want to be prepared.”

“And I thought we talked about you viewing that show as factual, and how you shouldn’t.”

“Well, unless you want to talk about what happens to you during the day, indulge me.”

Derek freezes and for a second Stiles thinks he’s going to answer, that for once Derek will say something he actually means, and Stiles won’t constantly feel like he’s stumbling in the dark whenever Derek is around. Instead, all he says is “ _Supernatural_ did get the bit about dead man’s blood right.”

“Good thing we’ve got Peter then, yeah?”

But Stiles has never left a question unanswered if he could help it, so it’s not even ten minutes later that he asks again, “What happens during the day, Derek?”

And when Derek mutters quietly, “I don’t know,” Stiles realizes that things are worse than he thought. 

 

 

Skipping school is a surefire way to get on his father’s radar, but Stiles needs to talk to Deaton without anyone listening in. 

“There is no magical ‘fix’ for this, is there?” Stiles accuses. “You let us flip through useless books night after night, knowing there was nothing in there that would help.”

Deaton sighs. “You should know better by now, nothing is ever easy with magic, at least not in the way we think of it. Yes, casting the spell was easy enough for you, but it only happened accidentally. I was hoping that having Derek see his pack working to fix him would help move things along, but if you’re here now I’m assuming it’s not going fast enough.”

“I didn’t realize there was a time limit on the spell. No p.s., fyi, parental advisory?”

“Which is why I told you not to read Latin in front of the books.” Deaton rubs at his forehead. “Magic often has a price, Stiles. Just—tell me what’s going on.”

Stiles breathes deeply. “Derek doesn’t remember what happens during the day. He’s taking longer to slip back into a human mentality. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s more quiet than usual and he’s started doing this new thing with his eyebrows. He’s freaking out. Just, you know, quiet-like.”

“He should be worried. If we can’t figure out some form of clarity for him, he’ll be stuck like this.”

“Like, stuck as a wolf?” 

“Maybe. I don’t know how the spell will react if Derek doesn’t complete it. He might be stuck as a wolf or he might be stuck as he is now. A wolf during the day and a man at night.”

“But if he’s not remembering his human form now, then—” A growing look of horror spreads across Stiles’ face. 

“He might end up feral? That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Stiles shakes his head wordlessly and then sighs. “This is all my fault.”

“There has to be something though, Stiles. The spell never would have worked, even accidentally, if there weren’t something that Derek needed to work through. He just needs to trust that we _will_ figure this out.”

“Trust? Derek doesn’t—” When he trails off Deaton raises any eyebrow. Stiles blurts, “Sorry, got to go,” and heads out. 

 

 

Day six and Stiles is putting his foot down. Even if leads to Derek ripping it off and beating him with it.

“Dude, will you just trust that we can fix this? For once in your life, trust _somebody_.” 

Derek laughs bitterly. “Look around you, Stiles. My life right now is a result of me ‘trusting’ somebody.” 

Stiles watches him stalk off with hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and in the tense line of Derek’s shoulders Stiles reads Kate and Peter and wounds that still haven’t scabbed over.

“Well, fuck.” 

 

 

Day seven and it takes twenty minutes for Derek to figure out pants, as he keeps one red eye firmly on Stiles.

“At least think about it?” Stiles asks when Derek is clearly back in the now, before Isaac shows up to take watch.

Derek makes no promises and Stiles hopes that everyone makes it through the night without violence.

 

(The next day Isaac holds his arm stiffly and when Stiles asks how things went, he just shakes his head and ducks away.)

 

 

Day eight and Stiles has a set of scratches on his arm from where Derek didn’t recognize him in time.

Derek looks at his fingers, tipped with red, and says quietly, “Fine. What do you want from me? A friendship bracelet? A BFF necklace? I’m open to suggestions here.”

The crickets are loud while Stiles thinks about how to start this conversation. Finally, he settles on: “Do you remember that night at the pool, when I asked you to trust me?” 

“Yeah?”

“Be honest, do you trust me now?”

Derek is silent for a long minute. Stiles fidgets uneasily. Eventually, Derek grits out, “Sometimes. You help the pack and I trust you in the moment, but then things like this happen and it’s your fault. 

Stiles hums contemplatively. “OK. I can work with that,” he says, and then starts talking about Harris and the chemistry test tomorrow that Derek is going to help him study for. 

He knows Derek is eyeing him strangely, but he takes the flashcards without any commentary.

 

(Stiles has a plan. It’s kind of shitty, but it’s better than Derek’s, which consists of do nothing until he loses everything. If he can make Derek bond with everyone through sheer force of will and enforced proximity, maybe they can get out of this without Derek going feral.)

 

 

It only takes five minutes on day nine for Derek to get his t-shirt on. A vast improvement from the previous record of ten minutes.

Erica shows up a little later, hands wrapped around a French textbook, eyes apprehensive. But Stiles grins and calls out “Have fun!” over his shoulder like he isn’t worried at all. 

He waits until he’s in his Jeep, hands clenching around the steering wheel, to worry about what might happen overnight. _This will work, this will work_ , he thinks over and over. If he can control mountain ash with belief and accidentally curse Derek, then he can make this happen.

 

(Stiles knows this will be a process. Knows that this could take weeks of coaxing Derek out of his stupid Alpha shell and general state of constant distrust, weeks of late nights and flash cards and talking about Batman vs. Superman, but eventually some dawn will come where Derek doesn’t run off on four legs and the pack can finally start to settle.) 

 

 

Day twenty-nine dawns with obscenely early phone calls and demands to meet at the 24/7 hour diner off Route 35 because Derek is still on two legs and breakfast is on him. 

If Stiles does a victory shuffle all the way to his car, well, no one will know but him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost this work in its entirety or share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads.


End file.
